Seven minutes later a small, fine-featured black man in his late twenties stepped out of the Palm Court, sighted across the parking lot, spotted the Seville, and waved. I jogged over, and he held the door open. After ushering me into the skimpy, dim booth the hotel passed off as a lobby, he led me to a chipped, brown-metal elevator, cupped his hand over his mouth, and spoke so softly I had to lean toward him.
“Detective Sturgis rogers you to ascend, sir.”
“Thanks.”
“Room two fifteen. You may take the elevator. Please.”
The lift rattled dangerously, and the one-story ride took nearly a minute. The second floor was a single, low, pink-vinyl hallway crowded with gray-green doors fitted with cheap locks. The sand-colored carpeting beneath my footsteps was unpadded and grimy around the edges. Midway down the corridor, an ice machine gurgled. DO NOT DISTURB signs dangled from three knobs, and every few feet canned laughter oozed through the vinyl.
No sign on 215. I knocked and Milo’s voice said, “Enter.”
Blue room. Gold bamboo over turquoise paper, a queen-sized bed made up carelessly with a navy spread, a black-painted desk and chair, a nineteen-inch TV bolted to the wall, rental movie-video game box riding on top. No closet, just open shelves next to the bathroom door, bare but for two six-packs of Budweiser and a collection of Chinese take-out cartons. A pair of older Vuitton suitcases had been shoved into a corner, sad as impoverished nobility.
Justin LeMoyne sat on the edge of the chair twirling an unlit cigarette between the fingers of one hand. His shoes were off, and the file case I’d seen him take from the car rested near his bare feet. In his lap was a black- bound script, and on the desk was a cell phone and a ThinkPad. Up close he looked older – early fifties – neck puffing and hollowing in all the wrong places, facial skin losing its grip on the bone. The kinky hair was worn down over his collar at the back, but a feathery, precise hairline in front said transplant. Behind the tiny glasses his eyes were dark, bright, uncertain.
Andy Salander was perched near the foot of the bed, dressed similarly to LeMoyne in khakis and a polo shirt – his, white with an olive collar. On the nightstand near his elbow was an open can of Bud. The ashtray on the opposite stand overflowed with butts, and the room reeked of tobacco and restless sleep.
Milo stood behind them, up against the beige chenille drape that dirtied the light leaking through the room’s single window.
Salander said, “Hi there, Doctor,” in a breakable voice.
LeMoyne gripped the script and pretended to study dialogue.
“Hi,” I said.
“This is Justin,” said Andy.
“Pleased to meet you, Justin.” LeMoyne sniffed, thumbed pages.
“Mr. Salander and Mr. LeMoyne are on ‘retreat,’” said Milo. “The question is from what.”
“Last time I checked it was a free country,” said LeMoyne, without looking up.
“Justin,” said Salander.
The older man looked up. “Yes,
“I – we… Forget it.”
“Excellent idea, Andrew.”
“Oh, my,” said Milo. “Such a simple question.”
LeMoyne said, “Nothing’s simple. And you have no right to invade our privacy.” To Salander: “You didn’t have to let him in, and there’s absolutely no reason we should permit him to stay.”
“I know, Justin, but…” To Milo: “He’s right. Maybe you should go, Detective Sturgis.”
“Now I’m hurt,” said Milo.
“Knock it off,” said LeMoyne. “The cute stuff chafes. We’ve already put up with the indignity of being frisked and having our belongings pawed through. If you have something to say, say it, then let us be.”
Milo fingered the drapes, pulled them aside, turned and peered through the window. “Gas station view.” He let the chenille drop. “If I lived in Beverly Glen, I wouldn’t retreat here, Mr. LeMoyne.”
“To each his own.
Salander winced.
Milo smiled. “The thing is, Andy, this whole free country thing – people recite it like a mantra, but we’re really not all that free. The law imposes restrictions. I’ve got handcuffs in my pocket, and I can take them out, place them around your wrists, and take you to jail and be operating in a perfectly legal manner.”
A tiny tremor scooted across Salander’s lips.
LeMoyne kept turning pages. “He’s trying to intimidate you, Andy.” To Milo: “That’s rubbish. On what grounds?”
“The thing is, Andy,” said Milo, “there’s a legal status called material witness that can reduce your freedom substantially. Same for ‘suspect.’”
Salander blanched. “I didn’t see anything, and I didn’t do anything.”
“That may be so, but my job is to suspect, not to adjudicate. And after a couple of days in custody-”
“Bullshit,” said LeMoyne, starting to get up. “Stop scaring him.”
“Please stay seated, sir.”
“Bullshit,” LeMoyne repeated, but he settled back down. “This is obscene. Oppressive. You of all people should-”
Milo turned his back on LeMoyne. “The thing that bothers me, Andy, is I specifically asked you to be available. Because you’re the last person who saw Lauren Teague alive, and that makes you a definite material witness. From my perspective, the fact that you agreed to be available but reneged makes you an interesting person.”
Long pause.
Salander said, “I’m sorry-”
“Oh, Christ,” said LeMoyne. “Stop talking, Andrew. Shut up-”
“You went back on your word, Andy. That and the fact that you’re hiding out in this garden spot-”
“We are
“Be my guest,” said Milo. “Of course, once that happens, I won’t be able to control the ensuing publicity – agent and suspect apprehended in cheap hotel. I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.” Half-turning back toward LeMoyne. “It was my impression that agents preferred to sell stories, not create them.”
“Defame me and I’ll sue you.”
“If I defamed you, I’d deserve to be sued, sir. But release of accurate facts doesn’t constitute defamation.”
Salander said, “Justin, this is crazy, why are we fighting? I didn’t
“Quiet,” snapped LeMoyne.
Milo smiled. Edged closer to the bed. “The story. So this is a story conference.” He laughed. “You guys are taking a meeting.”
“It’s not like that,” said Salander, wiping moist eyes.
“Stop blubbering,” ordered LeMoyne. “It’s unbecoming.”
“I’m sorry, Justin-”
“Stop
“Let me guess,” said Milo, stepping between the men. “Insider’s view of a blond beauty’s murder. Are you thinking big screen or made for TV?”
“No,” said Salander. “No, no, it’s just – Justin said if we registered the idea with the Writers Guild we could be protected – it would be like life insurance.”
“Ah,” said Milo. “You think if someone comes gunning for you, the Writers Guild’ll ride to the rescue? Must be a new service they provide.”
Salander began crying.
“You asshole,” said LeMoyne. “You enjoy scaring him, don’t you?”
